


Poetic Justice

by Vickironica



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Tom Riddle, Chickens, Collars, Emotional Roller Coaster, Harry and Draco friendship, Just maybe, Leashes, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Master/Slave, Maybe - Freeform, MoD Harry, No Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parseltongue, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Slave Tom Riddle, Slavery, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, i cannot tag for the life of me, i say angst but its really just tom having a very bad day, slave!Tom, thats the plot, toms a slave basically, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:01:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vickironica/pseuds/Vickironica
Summary: As punishment for his crimes, Tom Riddle—formerly the Dark Lord, Voldemort—is given to Harry Potter as a slave.Harry didn't even know slavery was still a thing in the wizarding world, and most definitely doesn't want one.





	1. Ironically Alive

**Author's Note:**

> So! I am back!! And I bet you guys weren't expecting this.
> 
> "But author-chan, what happened to the cute twin brothers, or the cute soulmates having fun together?!!"
> 
> Well, you see, I got this idea yesterday, and I literally am now obsessed with idea of Tom becoming Harry's slave after the war. Why was I the first to think of this. It's such a good idea. I actually started crying when I got the idea. ((IF ANYBODY WANTS TO MAKE THEIR OWN STORY WITH THIS IDEA P L E A S E DO I BEG YOU I"M SO DESPERATE FOR MORE OF THIS))
> 
> So you guys get to deal with this crap. Yeah I know it sucks, and the tags suck even worse, but eeehhhh. :D

“Tom Riddle,” the voice echoed, sounding impossibly loud in his ears.

His body tensed without permission, knowing the next words would decide his fate. Perhaps, if he were lucky, it would only be death.

He doubted it, even before the words had left the judges mouth.

“You are hereby sentenced to be Harry Potter’s slave.”

. . . . .

Harry stared at the letter in his hand, a confused expression adorning his face. What could the Ministry possibly want with him this time? They promised they wouldn’t bother him unless it was for the utmost importance.

He frowned, rereading the words a few times, summoning him to one of the many offices they have in a couple hours, but ultimately shrugged.

_‘Might as well see what they want_ _this time_ _.’_

There was nothing to gain by refusing, and they would just keep pestering him until he agreed, anyways.

Harry sighed, throwing the letter onto his desk, not sparing it a second glance. They didn’t even bother telling him _why_ he was being asked to come this time. Usually they at least grace him with _why._

He sighed again, wishing he could go back to bed.

“Kreacher!” Harry called down the hall, despite that being a completely unnecessary action.

The house elf popped in the room only a second later, giving Harry a short bow. “Is Master needing something?”

“The Ministry just sent me a letter—something about compensation for the war—at two. Would you remind me when it gets close to that time?”

“Of course, Master. Would you be wanting any lunch?” Kreacher replied.

“Maybe sandwiches or something, please,” Harry shrugged. “Nothing big. I’ll be in the garden.”

Kreacher disappeared with a quiet pop, most likely to the kitchen to start on lunch. Harry was just glad they had gotten past their differences and come to an understanding, especially since he was now living in Grimmauld Place with the house elf. Harry had refurnished a bunch of the rooms, getting rid of everything—okay, most things—dangerous, including the very loud screaming head of Walburga Black. Everything that was important to Kreacher went in the house elf’s own room, where he could furnish it however he likes, as long as it’s not disruptive. (Harry doesn’t even know what all he has in there anymore, and he doesn’t think he wants to know.)

Harry headed out back to work on his small garden, a mixture of magical and muggle plants, some for potions, others just for show, and some even for eating. One thing the Dursleys _had_ managed to beat into him was a hobby of gardening. He liked the feel of the soil beneath his hands, the plants coming to life because of his efforts, and being able to literally taste hard work he put into them, in some cases.

(His strawberry patch was coming up nicely.)

He worked without much thought, only pausing to take a small lunch break and stretch. It was peaceful, being alone to his own thoughts. Not having to worry about a war going on, living up to people’s expectations, being able to live alone and not having anybody tell him what to do. Nobody to control his every thought and action.

Even now, months after the war had ended, and even more months since Dumbledore had died, he was still finding out things about the wizarding world that everybody (especially Dumbledore) had kept from him. It was such common knowledge to every other wizard and witch alive, but he was kept in the dark so he was easier to control-

“Master Harry, sir, your meeting is in twenty minutes,” Kreacher warned, effectively snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

“Hm?” Harry processed the words. “Oh! Thank you, Kreacher.”

Harry headed inside, not caring that he left his tools out. He’d come back to work more soon, and there was no forecast of rain to worry about. A truly beautiful day, really.

He decided on a quick shower. He could just use a quick cleaning spell to gain the same results, but Harry likes the feeling of the water washing the dirt away. He also likes choosing hot or cold water, and being able to take one whenever he wants—something that was denied from him for his entire childhood.

. . . . .

A few minutes later, Harry is standing in one of the Ministry offices, with a rightfully confused look on his face. The lady at the desk—Ms. Holly, a young woman with a short red bob and a kind face—had handed him a thin book with no discernible cover. Before he was able to open and flip through it, the lady asked for him to take a seat.

With nothing better to do, he sat, leaving the book closed.

_‘It better not be for another interview,’_ Harry muses, already been in way too many for his liking.

The lady seemed to take that as her cue to begin explaining why he had been summoned.

As soon as she began talking, Harry wished it _was_ for another interview, no matter how boring. Hell, he’d take _Rita Skeeter_ over this.

“This book covers all of the basics of owning a slave, such as an overall guideline on how slaves are treated, various common punishment methods, and other-”

“Wait, hold on,” Harry interrupts, _really_ wishing he heard that wrong, “did you say _slave?”_

“Yes.”

In all of his wonderful and eloquent speaking, and without _anything else_ he could have _possibly_ said, Harry blurts out, “But I don’t have a slave?!”

(To be fair, shock is a hell of a drug.)

Ms. Holly doesn’t seem to mind his blunder, continuing on easily with a soft smile. “Criminals are sometimes turned into slaves under special circumstances. During the slave’s trial, you were chosen to be their master, since they had the greatest negative impact on your life.”

“Wait, what? Hold on a second, wizards still do slavery?!” Harry questions, half standing up in his chair without realizing. Slavery is still a _thing?!_

“Yes. It is not a common punishment, mind you, but it has been known to happen in the past. Nothing anybody in the wizarding world would find strange, unlike muggles, who outlawed slavery a few years ago.” Mrs. Holly answers, her kind voice disrupted only by what she was saying.

“I see.”

Harry really doesn’t. Just the _thought_ that slavery is still a thing makes him want to be sick. Perhaps he should’ve expected it? Since house elves are still a thing, but they _choose_ to serve their masters-

He continues, really still hoping he heard wrong the first time. And second time. And third time. “And you said _I_ was chosen to own a slave..?”

(Harry cannot _believe_ those words just came out of his mouth.)

“Yes. The trial concluded only yesterday, and you were decided as the best choice to be their master.”

_‘Trial? Whose trial?’_

Harry can’t stop a frown from forming on his face. The lady seems like a nice person, but she’s talking about _slavery_ with such a light and happy face, as if it doesn’t mean _anything_ that wizards apparently still do _slavery._ As if it’s such an everyday thing—and to them, it probably is.

And that’s almost worse to think about—that slavery is such an everyday thing to them that they wouldn’t bat an eye when they see it happen. Hermione would have a _fit_ if she knew, which brings up the point that she _doesn’t_ know.

If this is common information in the wizarding world, and _Hermione_ doesn’t know, then that means this was another thing that Dumbledore hid from them. As if it would ruin the experience of living in the wizarding world, ruin Dumbledore’s chances of having an obedient pawn. (To be fair, it probably would have.)

Harry’s musings are interrupted by a knock at the door, to which Ms. Holly only smiles.

“Come in!”

The door opens, and two aurors that Harry doesn’t recognize pop their head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Holly, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh no, you’re fine! Come on in!”

The two of them start to head in, but one looks back and takes on a harsh voice, yanking on something in his hand. “Hurry it up!”

Wait, what- _Oh._ _Oh no._

Harry’s stomach _drop_ _s_. He’s barely had enough time to wrap his head around the _thought_ of slavery, and they’re already bringing in his supposed _slave_ _-_

Now that he’s not distracted by their cheerful voices, Harry notices the chains one of the aurors is holding in their hand, leading to something behind them.

Soon enough, the figure follows through the door after the aurors, and it’s one that Harry recognizes right away, no matter how desperately he wishes otherwise.

_Tom Riddle._

Harry has the sudden overwhelming urge to _leave._ He’s literally about to be sick. He isn’t sure if it’s because _slavery_ , because _Voldemort_ , or because a very bad mixture of the two standing right in front of him. In the end, and he isn’t really sure how, Harry stays seated, and his lunch stays in his stomach, still threatening to make him ill at any moment.

He watches as the aurors yank the chain again, which Harry now realizes leads to Riddle’s neck, connecting to a collar. It’s a godforsaken _leash._ Riddle’s hands are bound behind his back by more chains, and there’s a literal _muzzle_ over his mouth, made of cloth and stuffed in his mouth, effectively locking his jaw in place.

Riddle doesn’t even seem to mind—or notice—the rough treatment, as if he’s already used to it. Instead, he only drops to his knees when the guard nudges—pulls—him again, keeping his head hanging low, as if to avoid eye contact. He’s staring at the floor like he wants to sink through it—to leave this horrid situation.

Harry can’t help but stare. He hasn’t seen Voldemort since the final battle months ago, and he had no desire to see him _ever again_ , even if he did decide to leave him alive in the end.

Harry has no idea why he looks like Tom Riddle again, instead of a nose-less lizard, but he quickly decides that doesn’t matter at the moment. He looks only a bit older than the diary—Harry remembers it so clearly, even after all these years—but so many things are wrong. His normally perfect hair is a disheveled mess, overgrown and covering his crimson-colored eyes. His usual posture that all but radiates power and leadership is no more, not even a spec remaining. Instead, Riddle seems like he wants nothing more than to phase through the floor, shrinking in within himself, making himself as small as possible.

And despite Riddle avoiding his gaze, Harry quickly caught sight of Riddle’s blood red eyes, carefully neutral, with only a subdued acknowledgment that he can’t stop whatever is going to happen. He’s accepted his fate, because there’s no other option.

Harry turns back to the lady, his voice distinctly toneless, only barely suppressing the storm of emotions inside of him. “I don’t want a slave.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Riddle drain of blood, becoming even more sickly pale than before, and almost shrink in on himself even more.

Before Ms. Holly can respond like she’s about to, still much too joyful in Harry’s opinion, he continues, realizing he probably said something wrong, “What happens if I don’t accept him?”

“Oh! The slave will be handed over to authorities to be tortured painfully for a few months, before finally being left to die,” Ms. Holly exclaimed, her happy tone a direct contrast with Riddle’s reaction to hearing his fate out loud.

“You.. can’t just do.. a death sentence..?” Harry asks warily, already scared of the answer.

“You are free to kill the slave whenever you want, since they belong to you, but that is what the judge decided will happen should you refuse the offer.”

The more Harry learns of.. whatever _this_ is, the less he likes it. “What, you would really let me just walk over there right now,” Harry gestures to where Tom is sitting, pointedly _not_ looking himself, “and let me _kill him?_ And nobody would _care?”_

Even before Ms. Holly answered, Harry knew he wouldn’t like the answer. He’s not liking any of this.

“Of course! The slave is yours to do with as you’d like.”

Instead, Harry tries a different approach, still purposely avoiding looking at Riddle. “And what’s stopping him from trying to escape? Or, you know, actually listening to my orders in the first place?”

“If, at any point, you are displeased with your slave, you may return them and they will await torture and death—the same thing as if you don’t accept them. You may also train and punish the slave at your discretion.”

Harry hears the chains behind him shift softly, but he doesn’t even glance over. He isn’t sure what would do if he saw Riddle again right now, aurors looming over him, and an inescapable fate being talked about right in front of him.

(He realizes he should probably be mad at Riddle—for everything that he had done as a Dark Lord, from killing Harry’s parents, dooming him to the Dursleys, and hurting so many of his friends, but he isn’t. He’s angry, yes, but not at Riddle. Not at the moment, when he’s too livid at the _thought_ of slavery to be mad at Riddle.)

Harry tries to focus on what Ms. Holly is saying instead, gripping the book in his hand a big tighter. “And what’s stopping him from using magic and trying to kill me, exactly?”

“Hm? Oh, the slave has had their magic bound, usable to your discretion. For instance, if you were to say ‘Only expelliarmus’, that would be the only spell the slave would be able to use. Or you could say ‘Only Wingardium Leviosa when I am present’, and they would be forced to obey. Of course, you can just say ‘No magic’, eliminating the possibility of them using magic in the first place.”

“That’s very.. specific.” Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that.

“Yes. That way you get the most use out of your slave, without risk of them retaliating in the process. Anything magical is fully under your control.”

“Wonderful.” Harry isn’t sure if his voice could sound more monotone if he tried.

Ms. Holly continues, much to Harry’s dissatisfaction. “One more thing.” _Oh thank Merlin,_ _we’re almost done_ _._ “The guidebook I gave you contains several high-quality punishment tools, as a special thanks for saving the wizarding world.” _Wait, hold on a moment-_

Harry _knows_ he didn’t just imagine the glance she gave Riddle, still sitting behind him, still being guarded by the two aurors.

Harry intentionally doesn’t ask what kind of ‘punishment tools’, quite sure he doesn’t want to know. The thought makes him even more nauseous than he already is.

“So,” Ms. Holly cocks her head to the side, “will you be accepting the slave?”

And, _oh_ , it’s time for Harry to decide. Really, his only answer should be ‘no’, and he’s really tempted to say just that. He doesn’t want anything to do with a slave, and nor does he ever want to be near Voldemort again, but…

Harry looks over to where Riddle is still kneeling, still just as pale, but now trembling uncontrollably, awaiting his fate.

Harry doesn’t want a slave, but he doesn’t want to be responsible for somebody’s—even _Voldemort’s—_ death, especially when he has the power to stop it.

“I accept.”


	2. Don't Die This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Harry come to an... agreement.
> 
> Neither of them really win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. I've got a new chapter. For uuuuuuu.
> 
> It seems people really liked the last chapter (aka the first), to which I reply, if you guys like it so much, WHY AREN'T THERE MORE SLAVE TOM FANFICS.
> 
> Pls write me some I beg u
> 
> Anywaysssssss, I hope u enjoy! :D

“Great!” Ms. Holly exclaims, bouncing up from her seat with an enthusiasm that Harry really doesn’t like, considering the situation. She starts talking to the aurors, and Harry doesn’t listen exactly to what they say.

Instead, he’s watching Riddle try to steady his breathing silently, as if making a single sound is taboo. His eyes never leave the floor, even when the leash connected to him is handed over to the lady. He doesn’t even glance over when the two aurors say their goodbyes, walking out the door with a cheerful wave.

A moment later, Ms. Holly is handing the leash over to him, and he takes it more on automatic response than actually wanting to hold it. A book on slavery in one hand, and a slave in the other. Just how Harry wanted to spend his day.

He’s gonna be sick.

“Just one more thing before you leave!” The lady stops Harry, even though he hadn’t actually moved yet, other than standing up. Harry only glances over, not even sure if he really wants to hear whatever she’s about to say. “We are aware that this slave used to be quite good at manipulation, so every couple of weeks, we’ll randomly check in to see how you’re doing! You know, making sure they aren’t using your lack of knowledge to their advantage, getting away with things they would be punished for, acting above their station, or anything of the sort. Think of it as our thanks!”

He was right. He really didn’t want to hear whatever she said. “That’s.. really kind of you.. but I- I don’t really think..”

“Nonsense! We would love to repay you back for everything you’ve done!”

“Oh, uh.. I’m not sure..”

“We insist!”

Harry could only sigh, still not very good at turning down requests. He really needs to stop being such a pushover. Ms. Holly seems to take his silence as agreement, and at this point, Harry wanted nothing more than to leave. He would deal with this problem at a later date.

He decided to change the subject, thinking of a potential problem. “Um, do you have the key to the.. chains.” He glances at Riddle, who had finally calmed his breathing, and had obviously noticed the change in who was holding the leash. He was still as a statue, other than a faint trembling he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Oh, here you go!” Ms. Holly hands over the key. It’s thin and light, deceptively so, for what it unlocks. Harry stares at it for a moment, then easily slips it into his pocket, where he immediate applies a sticking charm on the off chance it tries to fall out. She waves him out, obviously expecting him to leave now.

With his slave.

Harry takes the cue to head out the door, wanting nothing more than to be out of that room. Riddle immediately gets up and follows him, always staying a few paces behind but never letting the leash pull. Harry doesn’t look behind him, but he can hear the chains clinking together faintly.

Harry doesn’t know what he would do if he ran into another person, but luckily, not a single living being crosses their path. He still feels sick to his stomach, because there’s not a single thing good about this situation.

“Oh, _finally.”_ Harry had never been happier to see the Apparition Zone, despite how much he absolutely loathes apparating. He turns to Riddle, still standing behind him, having stopped when Harry stopped. “Try not to throw up, Riddle.”

That was all the warning he gave him before grabbing Riddle’s arm and apparating them home.

. . . . .

No matter how many times Harry apparates, he has a feeling he’ll always hate it. But, at least he didn’t get sick this time. He glances over to Riddle, who looks a bit uneasy, but otherwise looks fine.

They landed right outside Grimmauld Place, right where Harry was trying to go. He sees Riddle try to recognize where they are with no luck, though he probably has a pretty good guess.

“Well, Riddle, welcome to my humble abode. The Black Ancestral Home—fancy, I know.” He sees Riddle glance over to him for a moment—the first time he’s actually looked at Harry, but look away immediately. Harry pretends he didn’t see. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Harry opens the front door, gesturing to let Riddle in first. Riddle only pauses for half a second, barely noticeable hesitancy, before continuing in. Harry follows him in, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.

It feels good to be back home, especially after what Harry just went through. And though there’s nothing he’d love to do more than go back to bed and pretend this was all just a dream, Harry knows he has more important things to do, and ignoring the situation won’t make it go away.

Harry sighs.

He takes a few moments to compose himself, then turns to Riddle, still standing and waiting for him to do something. Harry leads him into the living room, sighing again. He seems to be doing that a lot today. He bets he’ll be doing it a lot more from now on, too.

“If I take these chains off, are you going to attack me?” Harry asks. He knows it’s blunt, but he really doesn’t care right now.

Riddle only stares at him for a moment, as if processing what Harry had said, or trying to figure out if he was serious or not. Harry stares straight back, absentmindedly noting what a beautiful red color his eyes are.

Riddle breaks the stare first, minutely shaking his head.

Up closer, Harry can see much of the details that he missed earlier. Riddle obviously wasn’t coddled wherever he was before, clothes (basically _rags_ ) stained brown with dirt, and Harry really hopes that the different shade of brown isn’t dried-on blood. He can see the outline of bruises trailing up and down his body, as if somebody repeatedly kicked him a bunch. (No magic means no healing factor, either-) Even through his shirt, Harry notices how thin Riddle is, as if he hasn’t had a decent meal since the final battle.

(To be honest, he probably hasn’t.)

(Harry pushes down the urge to throw up right then and there.)

There’s no possible way to know if Riddle’s lying or not, but Harry doesn’t even care about the possibility of Riddle trying to attack or run away right now. He sets the book on the coffee table next to them, suppressing another sigh.

He unlatches the leash first, discarding it to the ground as soon as it’s gone. He never wants to see it again, and he can’t imagine what Riddle must feel. The collar is still on, but he’ll deal with that in a minute.

Next, Harry reaches up to untie the cloth in his mouth. Riddle doesn’t move, only tensing up even further every time Harry’s hand brushes over his skin. It takes a few moments for Harry to figure out the knot, and he frowns and tries to maneuver around it, pointedly ignoring Riddle’s confused gaze.

Eventually, the knot comes undone and the cloth loosens, and Harry leans back and sighs. The cloth falls to the floor, and Riddle’s stare follows it, finally breaking away from watching Harry. Instead of trying to say anything, Riddle only clicks his jaw shut, not making a single sound, as if he’s scared of finding out what would happen if he does.

“Turn around.” Harry reaches into his pocket for the key, probably a bit _too_ glad it hadn’t fallen out by accident. He doesn’t even wanna think what would have happened if he’d lost it.

He guides the key into the small hole, and the lock clicks open easily. The chains loosen and fall off Riddle’s wrists, landing on the ground with a dull clang. Harry can’t help but to kick them away in disgust, towards where he’d thrown the leash on the ground.

Harry doesn’t know what he expected Riddle to do once he got his hands free, but Riddle only rubs his wrists for a moment before letting them fall to his sides, obviously waiting for Harry to make his next move.

(Harry wonders what Riddle expects him to do.)

His eyes trail over Riddle’s body again, noticing even more small bruises littering his body. Riddle’s wrists are bright red and rubbed raw from the chains, and Harry wonders exactly how long they had been on him. His eyes catch on the collar again, which is what looks like a metal band snapped shut around his neck, which can’t _possibly_ be comfortable.

Harry reaches to unlock the collar next, hoping desperately the key works for that too, but he can’t find the opening. (He _really_ hopes there is one.) To get a better look, because Riddle is easily a few inches taller than him, he nudges Riddle to make himself shorter, so he’s hopefully able to find a keyhole.

Riddle seems to get the wrong idea of what Harry wants, because he tenses again, as if dealing with internal hesitation, and his hands ball into tight fists.

Harry’s about to explain that he just wants him to bend over a bit so he can see better, but Riddle drops to his knees before he gets a word out, obviously believing Harry wanted him to kneel.

Harry sighs again, not really sure how to deal with this situation.

“So, listen..” Harry starts instead, fingers tracing over the collar for any bump or keyhole. “I like this situation just about as much as you do. I didn’t even know slavery was still a _thing_ until about half an hour ago, which brings up a lot of points I’d rather not get into right now.”

“But no matter how much we may hate this situation, we can’t really ignore it either. I’m not stupid enough to trust you, given that you’ll probably try to manipulate things to your advantage first chance you get, knowing you. And I _really_ hope you’re smart enough to realize what a precarious situation you’re in. You try literally _anything_ and you’ll be tortured and killed, and I might not be able to stop it if they think you’re using me.”

Harry finally finds the keyhole, hidden on the bottom on the side of the collar, and silently sighs in relief. He nudges the key in, and hearing the click of it unlocking sounded like music to Harry’s ears.

“So, I guess what I’m saying is don’t make this any worse than it already is. I’m trying to keep you from being tortured to death, but I can’t do anything to stop it if you doom yourself there out of sheer stupidity.” Harry unlatches the collar, immediately tossing it into the pile with undeniable disgust.

“.. Why?” Riddle’s voice sounds hoarse from disuse, obviously the first words he’s said in days, if the muzzle-gag thing was anything to go by.

Riddle seemed just as surprised at his own voice as Harry was. He blinked, startled at hearing his voice, then looked like he’d do anything to take back the word that slipped out without his permission. He stared at the ground, hands trembling slightly, as if he expected Harry to hurt him for speaking.

Before Riddle can say or do anything else, Harry continues on, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Why what?”

Riddle seems to have an internal battle with himself, untensing just a bit when nothing happens after he spoke, but also looking unsure how to answer Harry’s question. He licks his lips, then bites the bottom one, before finally deciding to answer. “Why.. why do you even _care?”_

That makes Harry pause, staring at Riddle with disbelief, but already knowing the bitter truth. “What, you really thought that I would send you to your _death_ just because I didn’t—don’t—want a slave?”

Harry frowns. Riddle doesn’t reply, which only succeeds in confirming Harry’s suspicions.

(And Harry’s heart _hurts._ )

“I’m not.. I don’t- I don’t want to be responsible for anyone’s death. I had the power to keep somebody from being tortured and killed—so even if I don’t want a slave, I would never forgive myself if I let you die right then.”

Neither of them say a word for a few moments. Riddle doesn’t look up from where he’s still kneeling, and Harry remembers when he had tried to turn down the slave only a moment after Riddle had come in. He gets lost in his thoughts, trying to imagine how Riddle felt in that moment.

A whisper breaks out through the silence, voicing Harry’s only clear thought without his permission.

“You looked so _scared_ when they said what would happen.”

If Harry’s voice cracked halfway through, neither mentioned it.

Instead, Harry pretends the confession had never slipped through, completely moving on a moment later. He picks up the forgotten book on the coffee table, sitting down on his soft couch and sinking in as much as possible.

He pretends he doesn’t see Riddle tense up again, who obviously remembers the “several high-quality punishment tools” given to Harry as thanks for defeating the person sitting right in front of him.

“She said this book contains a guideline.” Harry holds the book up, deceptively plain for what it contains. “So let’s try our best to follow it and keep you alive.”

Riddle gives the book a wary look, but gives Harry a slow nod.

Harry opens the book for the first time, and instead of starting at the beginning, he starts skimming through the pages. A few moments later, he seems to find what he’s looking for towards the end and flips a few pages back, and Riddle is rightly cautious of whatever he found.

“But that requires effort on your part, too. You would need to listen and obey when I give an order, no matter how much you may hate it.. I don’t- I don’t want to fight you. I would try not to make you do things you hate, but that may not always be an option.” Harry cocks his head to the side. “Would you be willing to serve me? To obey me?”

Riddle hesitates, and his voice is still raspy, and he looks much too tired to be awake, but he answers nonetheless.

“.. Yes.”

Harry looks down into the book again, taking out the object he had found earlier. Riddle fears the worst, cringing back as it appears, which Harry pretends he didn’t see.

The object in question is a bright, crimson red collar. It’s made of a soft material of high quality, and there is no lock and key—only a buckle that clicks into place.

“This will be the proof of our agreement.” Harry holds up the collar. “I will try to keep you alive the best I can, and in return, you will obey me.”

Harry leans forward to where Riddle is kneeling in front of him and buckles the collar around his neck.

The sound of the click is deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh oh oh oh!! If you guys have any scenes/ideas that you'd want to see, lemme know in the comments! Like a punishment idea, or an order that Harry would give Tom, or idk, literally anything. That would be FANTASTIC. :D
> 
> Hope u enjoyed! :D
> 
> Next chapter will be up at an unknown date because I have no writing schedule!


	3. A Deal with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Harry try to sort out their thoughts.
> 
> It doesn't work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOO LOOK A NEW CHAPTER. FINALLY. IT'S BEEN YEARS. Or a single month.
> 
> So I really don't know what to say. I got a job, I'm super busy all the time now ;-;
> 
> Alright I have one request. Somebody PLEASE write their own slave-Tom Tomarry fanfic. Please. P L E A S E. I beg you. I'm so desperate. It's such a great concept how has nobody else thought of it before. How. Please write it. Please sent it to me. PLEASE.
> 
> Anyways, hope u enjoy this nice chapter :D

Tom shuts the door behind him, and hearing the lock click shut really shouldn’t have felt as euphoric as it had, but he pays that no mind. For a moment, he wonders if he’s even _allowed_ to lock the door, but decides to risk it. The sense of privacy is too compelling to pass up and Tom revels in it while he can, even if it could be countered by a measly first-year spell.

_‘Take a shower, or even a bath if you want,’_ Potter had said. _‘There’s shampoo and towels already in there, and Kreacher will find some clothes that fit you._ _Just—take your time. Take as long as you want. Merlin knows we both need time to think some things through.’_

Tom sighs.

He’s a _slave_ now—Potter’s slave, at that. The same boy whose parents he killed. The same boy who he ruined the life of. (The Daily Prophet spreading rumors and lies, the Triwizard Tournament, using him for the ritual to get his body back, torturing and killing his friends, _killing him._ Need the list go on?)

And in the end, at the final battle at Hogwarts, Potter had the audacity to leave him alive. After Tom _killed him._

(He _knows_ Potter was dead. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he _knows._ Potter was _dead_.)

It makes him wonder why Potter is even pretending to be nice to him. Why let him take a shower when he could just use a cleaning spell (or not even that)? Why give him the chance to disobey—to revolt against him? Why even take the chains off in the first place, when anybody else would’ve just kept him locked up somewhere, unable to fight back at all?

He wonders how long Potter is going to keep pretending. Sooner or later, Potter is going to get over his newfound shock of ‘owning a slave’, and realize exactly how much power he has over him. Potter is going to realize he can punish Tom as much as he wants for all the pain he’s caused him with no retribution. In fact, most people would only encourage it even more.

Tom isn’t looking forward to whenever that will be.

Finally snapping partway out of his thoughts, he starts taking off his clothes—basically rags, covered in dirt and blood. He may have no idea what Potter is thinking, but he’s not about to waste the opportunity to take a shower.

Soon enough, the only clothing left is the bright red collar snapped around his neck. There is no lock and key, unlike the chains from earlier, only a buckle, like somebody would see on a dog collar.

(Tom supposes that’s all he is anymore. Nothing more than a dog—and that’s if he’s lucky.)

Tom could easily take the collar off at any time by reaching up and unbuckling it, but he supposes that’s what Potter was trying to achieve. He’s serving Potter of his own free will (or as close to that as he can get), and the fact he can remove the collar is proof of that.

It’s proof that Potter trusts him to keep his side of their agreement—the one where he agrees to obey all of Potter’s orders without complaint in return for _living._

Honestly, like there was any choice but to agree. Tom supposes he should count himself lucky that Potter isn’t already torturing him, but it’s hard to see the positives in his situation, no matter how much ‘worse’ it could possibly be. (And Tom’s sure he’ll find out just how bad it could be eventually.)

He’s not sure why Potter made the agreement in the first place. Perhaps it was his moral code; Potter feels better knowing that he’s not ‘forcing’ Tom to follow orders, and Tom is a willing participant in this.

(Fun fact: He’s really not.)

(He has _no choice_ because he’s a _slave._ )

Even.. Even without the agreement, Tom would’ve still obeyed. He would have obeyed all of Potter’s orders, because what other choice does he have? He doubts Potter would pass up an opportunity to punish him, if he were to disobey. In fact, there’s still a high possibility of that happening—if he doesn’t do a good enough job with whatever task, or if he ends up accidentally disobeying, or just for no reason, just because Potter feels like it.

Merlin knows Tom has done enough to deserve any punishment Potter could think of.

He doesn’t really want to think of the whip colliding with his back with a loud crack, only adding to the layers upon layers of pain, with Potter standing over him, smiling with sadistic glee. He doesn’t want to think of Potter testing each and every punishment tool he was given, seeing how long it would take Tom to break. (And he would. He would break.) He doesn’t want to think about being locked in a cupboard under the stairs for weeks at a time, only let out to do chores and for more beatings (and where had that thought even come from?). He doesn’t want to think about being chained down while Potter invites his friends over, giving them all a chance at revenge.

Tom doesn’t want to think about any of that, but his mind supplies the images in vivid detail anyways, even the phantom pains that go with them.

. . . . .

Harry hears the bathroom door click shut and sighs, leaning back and sinking into his couch. Two hours ago, he had no clue slavery still existed, and now he’s the proud owner of his very own slave.

He doesn’t bother wondering how he never knew about slavery in the wizarding world. Dumbledore has always been good at hiding important things from him, though Harry does wonder how he kept it from Hermione. This only further proves his point, really, that Dumbledore was the worst. (should’ve _never_ trusted him-)

Well, luckily, Harry has this nice guidebook for slavery, so he won’t be jumping in completely blind.

(Who’s he kidding—he knows _nothing_ that’s going on.)

Harry stares at the book in his hand, unassuming for what it contains. After the war, he’d expected to be done with Voldemort. All Harry’s ever really wanted was to be left alone—even now, that’s all he wants.

It doesn’t seem like he’ll be getting that for a long time now.

He flips open the book, already mentally preparing to cringe at the first thing he reads. And he was right, it was nothing he’d ever want to read, because they’re talking about a _human being_. There’s the basics of how slaves are meant to act, common punishments (each worse than the last), a very long list of random commands, and what rights slaves are entitled to, which is _none,_ and a whole bunch of pages he hasn’t looked at left.

Harry could torture Riddle until he died, and nobody would _care._ If anything, they’d probably applaud and congratulate him. He could torture Riddle, and they’d probably ask for their own turn. He could _lend_ Riddle out for a day (people would _pay him_ ), because Riddle is no more than property to the wizarding world. Something to be used until it breaks.

Harry remembers growing up with the Dursleys, who treated him no better than a slave at every occasion. A list of daily chores, frequently beaten for messing up (or just for no reason), little to no food _ever_ , people ordering him around and treating him like a servant instead of a _child,_ locking him up in the cupboard until he was useful.

How could anybody expect him to put somebody through the same situation he had been in himself? It doesn’t matter that Harry enjoys the thought of the people who wronged him kneeling in front of him. It doesn’t matter that the thought of Riddle writhing underneath of him sends a shot of arousal through his body. (Harry’s not afraid to admit he’s very attracted to Riddle’s looks—even back in second year with the diary, he’d wanted to run his hands through Riddle’s perfect hair, trace his finger along his jawline, wipe that annoying smirk right off his face-)

None of that matters, because Harry believes in a foreign concept called _consent._ It doesn’t matter how attractive Riddle is; Harry would _never_ stoop that low.

The book, however, seems to imply otherwise, with entire sections dedicated to explaining how to use a slave sexually. Common punishments. Common orders. Common tools, all lined up in the back of the book, ready for him to use at his dispense.

Harry hates every single bit of it.

But, just because he absolutely _loathes_ the thought of ever using Riddle sexually (and not because he doesn’t want to, mind you), that doesn’t mean he can just let Riddle sit around the house with nothing to do. They made an agreement, so as much as Harry doesn’t want a slave, and as much as Riddle doesn’t want to _be_ a slave, they both still need to play the part.

Which means Harry needs to give Riddle orders.

What kind of orders do you give an ex-Dark Lord that probably loathes the very thought of bowing down, much less to somebody he _hates._

(And there’s no way Riddle feels anything but burning _hatred_ towards Harry. There’s no possible way Riddle doesn’t hate _everything_ about his situation.)

Harry snaps out of his daze when he hears the shower turn off. How long had he been lost in his thoughts for Riddle to already be done? He glances at a clock and oh, it had already been almost half an hour since he’d heard the shower start.

Harry shuts the book, sliding it to rest beside him—no longer in the direct view from the bathroom. Like it makes the situation any better if Riddle can’t see it. Like Riddle would ever forget about its existence.

Riddle steps out of the bathroom a moment later. The clothes Kreacher had grabbed for him fit, which is definitely good, but the dampness of the bathroom air is making them stick to his body, outlining his slim figure. His hair is still wet and sticking to his forehead, other than a few strands already regaining their curl and sticking out at odd angles.

(And how the _hell_ had he gotten his good looks back?? Where did the snake monster looking thing he used to be go?? It’s possible this Riddle is only another horcrux, but Harry doubts it. He doesn’t know how he knows, but somehow he does. He knows this is the real Riddle, with a full soul to boot.)

And, Harry realizes, the collar is still around his neck. He doubted Riddle showered with it on, meaning that Riddle snapped the collar back on _himself._

Riddle walks over to where Harry is still sitting on the couch. He glances at the ground, obviously wondering if Harry wants him to kneel again, especially now that they have their little deal.

Before Riddle is able to act on whatever he decides, Harry pats the couch next to him. “Come sit down.”

Riddle gives Harry a dubious look, but does as asked, sitting on the very edge of the couch. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and a drop of water runs down his face from his still-wet hair, but he makes no move to wipe it away. Instead, he keeps watching Harry, trying to figure out what his next move is going to be.

(And wouldn’t Harry like to know that too.)

Harry stares back for a few moments, neither of them breaking the others’ gaze. And then, without warning, Harry summons a towel from the bathroom and shoves it in Riddle’s face.

Riddle startles backwards, trying to jerk the towel away from his face, until he realizes exactly what it is.

He sends Harry a glare, but seems to think better of it and looks away immediately. Harry only gives him a mischievous grin in return, and he knows that Riddle catches it by the look of pure confusion in his eyes. Did he really think that Harry would get mad for him? For glaring for all of two seconds?

They sit together in an oddly relaxed mood, while Harry rubs Riddle’s hair dry, and Riddle slumps deeper into the couch, as if the strain of the past few months has finally seeped into him.

Once Riddle’s hair is moderately more dry, Harry vanishes the towel back to the bathroom and combs his fingers through Riddle’s hair. The strands all separate into little waves, curling even further at the edges.

After a few moments, Harry leans back, satisfied enough with his work. (Like Riddle’s hair is anything but perfect anyways-) Riddle lifts his hand halfway to his hair absentmindedly, before seeming to realize what he was doing and drops his hand back down.

Harry decides to ignore that for the moment, instead climbing up from his seat on the couch. “Alright, follow me.”

Riddle looks wary again, but he gets up and follows Harry without a sound.

(Harry’s knows why Riddle thinks he can’t make any noise, much less _speak_ , but that doesn’t stop Harry from wishing otherwise. Wishing Riddle hadn’t conditioned himself to not make a single sound. Wishing Riddle hadn’t looked so _scared_ when he’d accidentally spoken earlier, expecting to be punished.)

Harry leads them into the kitchen, where Kreacher had anticipated his request and had already set up an easy-on-the-stomach dinner—roasted yams drenched in butter and brown sugar.

(They’re mushed enough where it shouldn’t be hard for Riddle to stomach. Harry had looked up foods good for after starvation a long time ago, after his own experience with it.)

Riddle, upon noticing the food, had stopped in the doorway. Harry could see the hungry look in his eyes, watching the food with a narrow and disbelieving gaze.

He turned his eyes to Harry with a small frown Riddle probably didn’t realize was there. Harry could almost hear his thoughts from where he was standing, filled with suspicion and resignation.

He really thinks that Harry’s going to eat in front of him, and not give him any.

Harry’s not surprised that’s where his thoughts went. The Dursleys had done that to him too many times.

Harry shakes that thought away quickly, focusing on the present. He gestures to a chair across the table. “Take a seat, Riddle.”

Riddle obeys, sitting down with a slowness that could only be explained by weariness and submission. He doesn’t reach for the food, even as his stomach growls loud enough for Harry to hear across the table.

Harry snatches the plate in front of him, aware of Riddle’s stare as he plops down a scoop of yams onto the center. He holds it out for the other to take, and it takes a few moments before Riddle realizes that he’s meant to grab it.

Riddle set the plate down in front of him, but doesn’t touch it otherwise.

“You can eat it, you know,” Harry announces. Riddle’s head whips up in surprise, obviously never expecting he’d actually get to taste it.“Just don’t eat too fast, or you’re probably going to be sick.”

Riddle nods, already reaching for his fork with a shaky hand. Harry gets his own plate while Riddle takes his first bite, and Harry literally _watches_ him droop, no longer looking half as tense as he had been. Riddle relishes the taste of such a simple meal, probably having expected to never receive something so good-tasting ever again.

Harry watches Riddle physically restrain himself from eating the entire plate in three bites like he obviously wanted to with poorly-hidden amusement.

They finish their meal in relative peace and quiet, mostly because Riddle is trying to relish every bite like it’s the last one he’ll ever get (and he probably believes that, too), and Harry is content eating his own meal in peace.

Still, Riddle finishes his plate far too soon, and he glances to the pot of still-steaming yams, but looks away quick enough.

“Better not to eat too much at first. Give your stomach a few days to get used to having food again, because unless I’m wrong, you haven’t had a good meal in a while, right?” Harry questions.

Riddle nods slowly, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze.

“Yeah, best not to then.”

Riddle seems to mentally prepare himself for something, looking even more tense and unsure—his hands clenched into white fists by his side. Before Harry can ask why he’s suddenly all tense again, Riddle slides out of the chair and onto his knees in front of Harry.

He bows his head, and Harry watches his hands somehow clench impossibly tighter. “Thank you for the gracious meal, Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy. How'd y'all like this nice chapter :D
> 
> Remember to write me a slave-Tom Tomarry fanfic :D And send me it. Please.


	4. Put All Your Thoughts To Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are confused.
> 
> Aka: Harry learns that wizarding slavery is a lot more messed up than he originally assumed, and Tom's on the verge of a mental breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my good people I have returneddddddd. With another nice new chapter. I hope y'all like it :D
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to write me a nice slavee Tommu fanfic, or even draw me some wonderful chained and broken Tommu, that would be absolutely fantastic and I would be very very grateful. Very. (You don't understand how desperate I am-)
> 
> :D I hope you enjoy!!! :D :D :D

Harry suppresses the urge to sigh again, because that really can’t be good for his health. Riddle is still kneeling in front of him, waiting for Harry’s next order, which means that Harry actually has to say or do something and can’t just pretend this is all a bad dream. He can’t even put the food away as an excuse, because Kreacher had just magically cleaned the table, diligent as always.

He watches Riddle sway, his obvious exhaustion finally catching up with him. After everything that’s happened today, Harry’s surprised it took this long, to be honest.

“Alright, you look like your about to keel over, so how about we find you a room and we’ll deal with.. _this,”_ Harry gestures to both of them, but mostly to Riddle, “tomorrow.”

Harry leads Riddle through the house, walking through the familiar hallways and up the stairs, only to make a sudden stop when he realizes something. His eyes widen because _how could he have forgotten,_ and he mutters a quick “Stay here,” before making his way back to the bathroom.

. . . . .

Only a few moments later, before Tom has time to do anything but shift his feet a bit, Potter returns with a small tub in his hand. He motions for Tom to follow him, and Tom obeys.

He doesn’t really know where they’re going, but Tom has a feeling he won’t really like it. Potter mentioned finding him a room, and Tom can only guess what that means. He knows that Potter doesn’t trust him—and rightfully so.

He’ll probably be chained to something, Tom realizes. No matter how lenient Potter has been so far, Potter is anything but dumb. He would never—should never—let his guard down around Tom, not after everything he’s done.

Which means Tom will presumably be chained to something. Most likely, a cold stone wall. At best, Tom almost dares to hope for a carpeted floor. Potter wouldn’t take the risk that Tom might think about running; chaining him to something greatly diminishes that risk, all while reminding Tom of their respective places—something which Tom isn’t likely to forget anyhow.

And Tom harbors no thoughts about running. It would be a pointless endeavor—everything here has magic, and Tom.. doesn’t. (He doesn’t even want to _think_ about his magic, locked up in his core, only accessible through Potter’s unlikely order.)

(Tom misses his magic _so much.)_

Plus, on the off chance that he did somehow escape, a simple ‘Point Me’ would lead them right to him. He’s also sure the Ministry did a tracking spell on him, as well. No, trying to escape would only end up badly for him, because Potter would probably delight in the opportunity to punish him, and a slave trying to escape is a grave crime, at best.

Tom’s already decided to be good for Potter. He wouldn’t dare be anything else.

The collar around his neck feels heavier, somehow.

It’s then that he notices that they had stopped walking. Potter is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and Tom dearly hopes that he hasn’t already messed up. That he hasn’t accidentally ignored an order from his master. That any leniency shown thus far will be taken away, Potter believing Tom was being disrespectful on purpose.

But Potter only turns around, opening a door that Tom hadn’t noticed before. (He must be really tired if he’s missing such obvious things. He hopes the floor is comfortable enough to sleep on.)

Tom is rightly nervous of what could possibly be inside the room, and his mind supplies him with many images—most of which he definitely doesn’t like. The door creaks open slowly, like it’s from a horror movie, trying to add more suspense. Or a door that hasn’t been opened in a long time, because there was no reason to.

Potter keeps nudging it open, putting a bit more weight into it. “Sorry, I swear I was going to fix this one day, but it just slipped my mind.” He pauses. “.. Multiple times. Well, at least I’ll have a bit more reason to actually work on it now!”

Potter’s half-cheerful voice is a direct contrast to the dread pooling in Tom’s stomach, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Tom pointedly doesn’t look into the room, hoping to put off everything for just a couple more seconds. Seconds that passed much too quickly.

The door stopped creaking, and Potter took a step back. He gestures into the room with a wave of his hand and an almost _proud_ look. “I guess this’ll be your room for a while. I mean, it’s not much, but your.. arrival.. was kinda sudden.”

Tom finally risks a look into the room, apparently now _his_ room. Probably nothing more than a fancy word for dungeon-

Tom freezes.

The room is carpeted, with a soft cream color aligning the walls. There’s a dresser with a mirror in one corner of the room, and right next to it is a desk. There’s even a small window, letting a bit of the sunlight shine through.

And in the other corner is a _bed._ An actual _bed._

The sheets look thin, and the blanket on it more so, but there’s an extra blanket at the foot of the bed with a wildly colorful space-theme on it—so obviously out of place in the beige room. Which means that Potter added an extra one for _Tom._

Merlin, Tom had been expecting a carpeted floor _at best._ But..

_.. a bed. There’s a_ _**bed.** _

And then the realization hits him. Tom’s never been told he can sleep in the bed. This is probably another test, to see if he truly knows his place as a slave.

That’s fine. A carpeted floor is more than enough.

“I mean, I know it doesn’t measure up to your royal princely standards,” Potter continues with a half mocking tone, and Tom wonders how long he’d zoned out again, and what in the world Potter is talking about. “But it’s a room. I’m sure we’ve both slept in a lot worse conditions.”

An image flashes through Tom’s head. _A creaky door being slammed in his face, hearing the jingle of the lock being clicked into place, and all light seeping into blackness. Being crammed inside a place much too small for him, filled with cobwebs and bugs. His bed being nothing more than a thin sheet, and blanket only a rotten cloth with holes-_

… What was that?

No, that doesn’t matter right now. He has to- he’s been given an actual _room._ He still doesn’t even know if he’s not just imagining everything.

He turns to Potter, his voice a bit more shaky than he would’ve liked. “This- You’re letting me.. This is.. _my_ room..?”

“Uhh.. yes?”

Tom sunk to his knees again, already getting over any hesitancy he’d originally had for the demeaning act. He’d be doing it a lot more in the near future, plus, with Potter, after everything he’s given Tom (food, a shower, a _room_ ), he didn’t hate kneeling half as much as he used to. He _loathes_ the guards who forced him to his knees, but he can’t imagine hating Potter even half as much, even when ordered to perform the same action.

“Thank you, Master.”

Only three words, but with so much emotion behind them.

Potter, for some reason, looks both confused and concerned. “Okay- hold up. I think we need to rewind a bit—like, to the beginning. The very beginning. _Why_ do you look like you’re about to cry?”

Did he look like that? Tom doesn’t doubt it.

He doesn’t know what Potter is talking about again—it should be pretty obvious—but he answers anyway. “You- You’re letting me stay in a _room._ ”

“.. Yes..?” Harry doesn’t look any less confused. “Wait- What were you expecting?”

Now Tom is also confused. Even more than he was.

He’s not sure exactly what to tell Potter, but decides he probably shouldn’t start their new.. _positions_ with lies. “..Something like.. a dungeon, or a cell, Master.”

Potter makes a very pained expression, and Tom can’t tell why. “So.. do you know anything about how slaves are normally treated in this society..?”

“Yes?” Tom didn’t mean to phrase that as a question, but that’s what it came out as. He tries to explain. “Many of Gellert Grindelwald’s followers were enslaved after the war, so I’m quite familiar with how it works.”

“Right. Great,” Potter’s voice deadpans. “We will discuss that _tomorrow._ Right now,” He points at Tom, then to the room. “You. Bedroom.”

Tom obeys, standing up and walking a step into the room. (And it’s somehow even better on the inside.) He turns around, holding out his wrists for Potter.

And now Potter only looks confused again, plus a bit of.. concern? “.. Um.. What.. are you doing..?”

At this point, Tom’s not sure if Potter is trying to mess with him, or if he genuinely doesn’t know a single thing about slavery. “Do you.. not wish to bind my wrists overnight, Master?” He cocks his head to the side a bit, aiding his confused (and that’s all they’ve been for hours now) look.

Potter stares at him for almost a full minute, like he’s trying to assess if Tom is joking or not. Tom tries not to wither under his gaze, wondering if he said something wrong. When Potter finally breaks the stare, it’s to turn around and take a deep breath. And another. And another.

Finally, Potter turns to face Tom again, who hasn’t moved an inch the entire time. His eyes are filled to the brim with emotions—too many for even Tom to recognize any single one. “Okay, it seems we have a _lot_ of things we _really_ need to discuss, but!- we’ll do that tomorrow. So, for now, I’m going to tell you that _no,_ I’m not binding your wrists together. I mean, if you try to run away, I might change that fact, but for now, _absolutely not.”_

Tom doesn’t know what to say to that, really. Instead, he drops his arms back to his side. He’s grateful, don’t get him wrong, but.. _why?_

Potter says they’ll discuss it—among other things—tomorrow, and that’s fine with Tom. Not that he has much choice in the matter. He’s only here to follow orders. Potter gives him a command and he obeys; that’s all there is to this.

Tom isn’t sure where ‘discussing’ comes into their arrangement, but he doesn’t argue. Perhaps Potter wants to question him—to see how much he knows about slavery so he knows better how to treat Tom. How being this nice to slaves is unheard of.

He wonders if Potter is waiting for him to respond, even if it had only been a couple seconds, and decides to reply. “I- I will not run away. I won’t.”

Potter raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s good. I don’t even want to think of what kind of punishment that would ensure.”

Tom tenses a bit at the word ‘punishment’, but Potter doesn’t comment on it. Somehow, Potter’s comment didn’t feel like a threat, just a fact.

“Anyways,” Potter hands the tub he was holding to Tom, who takes it with minute hesitancy, still wary of his intentions. “This is for your injuries. Just rub it on at night before you go to bed until the wounds heal.”

Now that Potter mentions it, the tub looks similar to something he’s seen before—a salve for both healing and easing the pain. Something that shouldn’t be used on a slave. Something that nobody else would ever give a slave.

Tom doesn’t even care if all of this is a trick anymore.

Potter turns to leave, but stops only a step later. He faces Tom again, who hadn’t moved yet, too caught up in his thoughts. “Oh, also, I have no clue if I actually need to specify this, but _yes_ , you can use the bed.”

Potter shuts the door behind him, leaving Tom alone in his new room.

_He can use the bed._

Tom almost breaks down and cries right then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehehehehehe-
> 
> Next chapter will be a very long talk. Over everything that's happened, and more! :D
> 
> It's all just angst I'm so excited :D


	5. Rather Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Tom finally have their 'talk'.. kinda. They're both just internally screaming, but that's nothing new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER NEW CHAPTER
> 
> I'M ON A ROLL
> 
> MY SPAGHETTI IS BURNING
> 
> MY LIFE IS IN SHAMBLES
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOM, I'M ENSAVING YOU AGAIN  
> (i am so glad voldemort does not actually exist because i don't fancy being crucio'd thanks)
> 
> Also!!! I made a discord!! Anybody who wants to join can!!! Here's a link!!!  
> https://discord.gg/Mfacyh2

Harry wakes up slowly, letting out a large yawn. He rolls over in his bed, stretching as much as possible without actually getting up. For a few minutes, he’s tempted to fall back asleep, because his bed is just so comfy and warm, why would he want to get up?

It’s weird how he actually feels well-rested; usually he stays up much later than he should, and still gets up early from well-ingrained habit, thanks to the Dursleys. But today, he actually feels like he got a proper amount of rest. (Doesn’t stop him from wanting to fall back asleep, but he knows it’s a pointless endeavor anyways.)

The only logical conclusion for why he got a proper amount of sleep is if he went to bed early, but why on Earth would he-

Harry remembers yesterday’s events and groans, any lingering tiredness immediately vanishing.

Right, he has a  _ slave _ now. And said slave is  _ Voldemort. _

Merlin, why can’t Harry just have a normal life? Even just a normal year? Just one. That’s all he asks for. One year where his life isn’t written like some crappy seven book series.

Harry gets comfortable under his covers; he needs to think, and there’s no reason he needs to get up to do so.

He’s in the kitchen only two minutes later, sipping some hot tea and regretting many life choices. He knows he needs to see if Riddle is up yet, but he’ll deal with that  _ later. _ Right now, he’s busy mourning the loss of his covers because his body hates him staying in bed after he wakes up, for  _ some reason.  _ Curse his bodily habits.

The idea is finally sinking in now, that none of this is a dream. Harry walked through yesterday in a half-daze, like any second he was going to wake up and everything was going to be back to normal. Obviously, that didn’t happen. And now he has to accept the reality that he accepted  _ Voldemort  _ as a  _ slave. _

He sips at his tea, still lost in thought.

Riddle, for the most part, seems pretty subdued. It actually worries Harry how he’s not even fighting against it. He’s called Harry ‘master’, kneeled without being prompted, obeyed Harry’s orders, didn’t touch the food until told he could do so, and expected Harry to bind his wrists overnight  _ (let him—brought it up himself, instead of just pretending he didn’t know) _ , as if he’d just..  _ accepted  _ all this. As if all the fight had left him.

(And Harry doesn’t want to know what it took for Riddle to break. What it took to get Riddle to kneel down, to call him master with no hesitation.)

And Harry even made him wear a  _ collar _ . (He doesn’t know why he delusioned himself yesterday, thinking that Riddle had any choice in this. Like there was any choice except for him to accept-) Merlin, what was he  _ thinking?!  _ Of course, he doesn’t want Riddle to get sent back, but a  _ collar. _ Why doesn’t he just parade Riddle around in the streets at this rate?!

Merlin, he’s going to have to tell Hermione and Ron. That’s going to be a nightmare, at best. Honestly, he should probably call them right now, but.. Harry is hesitant to do so. Riddle and him, they both need some time to sort things out, and that’s not going to happen with other people around. He can already imagine their reactions to it—Hermione in a furious rage, spending even more hours at the office to stop any more cases of slavery happening, and Ron right there with her, maybe not agreeing, but supporting her the entire way.

Harry sips his tea again, which is already getting cold. He applies a heating charm subconsciously, never snapping out of his thoughts.

He can’t believe that slavery actually  _ exists _ in the wizarding world. He didn’t even want to think of that as a possibility—still doesn’t, really. But now he’s stuck with his very own slave and has no clue what to do about it. He can’t just let Riddle lounge around the house; if the Ministry people show up, they’re not going to like that. So, giving orders it is.

Actually, Harry has no problem  _ giving _ orders; in fact, he probably likes it a bit too much (to make up for people controlling him his  _ whole life-).  _ The bigger problem is that he has no orders  _ to _ give. All of the housework is taken care of by Kreacher or himself, and Harry refuses to give up any of his work. He would go  _ insane _ if he suddenly stopped having work to do; that’s been his routine his entire life, and he’s not about to change it.

So that leaves pointless orders. Until he can find a suitable ‘job’ for Riddle to do, Harry can give him random tasks that serve no true purpose, other than to be, well.. humiliating.

And Harry can admit that Riddle deserves a bit of humiliation, at best. He deserves a lot worse than that, honestly. But Harry remembers his time at the Dursleys, where he was forced to cook and clean every day and barely got enough food to survive, where Vernon would beat him if he ‘didn’t do a good enough job’, where little Harry was only three or four before he was given his first chore.

Harry doesn’t want to be that kind of person. He doesn’t want Riddle to be terrified of his every move. He doesn’t want to make Riddle wish he’d chosen the other option. He just wants..

Harry doesn’t know what he wants.

Now that he’s had more time to think, Harry’s realized he’s still mad at Riddle for, well, Voldemort. That’s to be expected, really. But what is surprising is that he doesn’t  _ hate _ Riddle. By no means does Harry  _ like _ him, but he doesn’t hate him.

(There are only four people Harry truly hates, people he will never be able to forgive. And Voldemort doesn’t make that list.)

But he has to admit that Riddle deserves it. Deserves whatever humiliating or even  _ painful _ order Harry comes up with, because he hurt  _ so many. _ Riddle tormented and hurt so many different people, and he would never be able to feel as much pain as they did, no matter how badly Harry punished him.

(Harry has to admit that being made into a slave was a reasonably fair punishment, no matter how much he hates the idea. It’s, as they call it,  _ poetic justice.) _

Harry sighs, sipping his tea once more only to realize the cup is empty. Instead of getting a refill, he grabs a notebook and pen instead, and he writes a list of topics they need to discuss.

After he finishes, which means it’s as good as it’s going to get, Harry stands up and starts walking towards Riddle’s room. For a brief moment, Harry wonders if Riddle is awake yet, but assumes he probably is. For another brief moment, this one filled with panic, he wonders if Riddle is still in his room, or if he’d tried to make a break for it the first moment he got.

_ “I- I will not run away. I won’t,” _ he had said. His hands were shaking at his sides, balled into tight fists.

And, despite every past experience telling him not to, Harry believed him.

He knocks on the door.

He doesn’t hear anything on the other side, but the door swings open a moment later to reveal Riddle, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. A quick glance into the room shows Harry that the bed is made, looking as untouched as it had before he’d left.

“You did actually sleep in the bed, right..?” Harry raises an eyebrow, not actually having expected that to be a problem.

Riddle only stutters out a quiet “Y- Yes, Master.”

And there’s another thing. What’s Harry supposed to do about Riddle calling him ‘master’ all the time? (He wonders what it took for Riddle to call him that. What happened in those months before the trial, for someone like Voldemort, _ so strong-willed _ , to break.)

“Right, well, it’s breakfast time. And then we’ll see about having our very important discussion.”

He motions for Riddle to follow him to the dining room, where they find out Kreacher had set up a variety of breakfast foods—eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit. Just the same as last night, Harry beckons for Riddle to take a seat and joins him on the other side.

And just like last night, Riddle doesn’t make a move for the food. Instead, he stares at it, lost in thought. (Though what he’s thinking about, Harry couldn’t guess.)

“Rule number one,” Harry starts, startling Riddle out of his thoughts, “You are always allowed to eat food, unless I specifically state otherwise. And at that point, there will be a damn good reason for it.” Harry remembers feeling so hungry he’d rather be dead, all while not only having delicious food in front of him on a daily basis, but him having to  _ cook _ said meals as well. “So eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and you never have to ask my permission to do so. If I don’t want you eating something, I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, Master.” Riddle’s voice is a bit breathy, as if he’s almost too startled to even form words. He’s staring at Harry with a wide-eyed expression, and Harry has to gesture to the food on the table for Riddle to break his gaze, only for him to stare at the food instead.

(What in the world did Riddle think being a slave was like to make him so _ shocked _ at Harry giving him food?)

(All Harry can do is compare the situation to the Dursleys.)

After getting over his hesitancy, Riddle tentatively raises a shaky hand towards the fruit bowl, constantly glancing back towards Harry, as if afraid that he was somehow messing up. Harry pretends he doesn’t notice, digging into his own food.

Slowly, over the course of the meal, Riddle relaxed. He stopped acting like every bite was going to be his last, and the tension in his muscles loosened. Harry was fairly certain they were going to get through breakfast with no major problems, at this rate.

Of course he had to jinx it.

Harry hears the ‘clink’ of the cup hitting the table before he looks up from his food, just to see orange juice splashed everywhere on Riddle’s side of the table. Quite a bit is soaking into Riddle’s food, and the rest is in a small puddle that’s about to drip off of the table.

A couple drips of the splash hit his face, and Harry wipes them off.

Riddle, on the other hand, is frozen in place, hand still outstretched from grabbing the cup, and cringing backwards as far as he can without moving.

Harry breaks the silence, muttering to himself, “I just  _ had _ to say something, didn’t I?”

And that seems to snap Riddle out of his trance, but now he’s stuck in an endless babble of apologies and growing paler by the second. “I’m sorry Master I’m sorry I really didn’t mean to it was an accident I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t please Master I promise to be good please I’m so sorry I did not mean to please I’m sorry-”

“Riddle.” Harry says it with a stern enough voice for Riddle to shut his mouth immediately, no doubt expecting the worst. “It’s just orange juice. You made an honest mistake; I’m not going to ‘punish’ you over that. It was an accident.”

Riddle doesn’t reply. He looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

Harry doesn’t offer any more words, instead vanishing the mess with a wave of his hand. (Really, a wandless vanishing spell is much easier than everybody made it out to be.)

But that brings up another point that Harry hadn’t thought about. Harry still has full control over Riddle’s magic, apparently. And honestly, he has no clue what to do with that fact. He knows he can’t just  _ give _ Riddle access to his magic, lest very bad things happen again. But at the same time, Harry doesn’t want to keep it from him either.

Magic is- Magic is what makes up who they  _ are. _ For someone who grew up with nothing, magic was their only escape, knowing that whatever happened, they’d still have their magic.

And Riddle doesn’t even have that anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Riddle says again, breaking the silence. His gaze never leaves his lap, where his hands are now neatly placed.

“Are you still hungry?” Harry already knows the answer before Riddle even opens his mouth—knows because he feels the same.

“No.”

Harry hums, beckoning for Riddle to follow him to the living room. Riddle, of course, follows. He gestures for Riddle to sit on the couch before he can come to any of his own conclusions, most likely about kneeling, then takes a seat himself. As expected, Riddle looks nervous, fidgeting minutely with his hands, an unconscious motion.

Harry takes a moment to compose himself, understanding this is going to be a stressful talk immediately. “So, first off.. I am  _ very _ new to this. I had no idea the wizarding world still did slavery until yesterday, and I think I’m honestly still in denial. I am aware this is probably common knowledge, but in my defense, Dumbledore has an  _ uncanny _ ability to hide obvious things from people. I’ve been going through the Black library, but I’m not very good at studying, so.”

Harry glances up from where he’d been staring at the floor, which had suddenly become quite interesting, with all its wonderfully intricate patterns, and he catches a glimpse of red, and he suddenly can’t stop the nauseous guilt gnawing through his stomach.

“Second of all, I’m sorry.” Riddle seems to startle at that, as if that was the last thing he’d expected Harry to say—which might not actually be that far off. It doesn’t help Harry feel any better. “I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m going to mess up. I’m going to mess up really badly, I’m sure, and you’re going to bear the brunt of that, and I’m sorry about that. I’ve already messed up, actually—I don’t know what I was thinking yesterday. You.. I shouldn’t have made you wear a collar. That was wrong.”

There’s a silence where neither Harry nor Riddle say anything, and Harry realizes he didn’t even cover half of what he’d meant to say.

“It was wrong of me to make that deal in the first place. I was stupid, and I don’t know why I delusioned myself into thinking you had a choice in any of this. You don’t have to wear the collar. The deal was a stupid idea, and I was stupid for thinking differently. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is.. you can take off the collar.”

Harry expects Riddle to practically rip off the offending accessory, one that devalues him into something less than human, but Riddle, instead-

He’s trembling. Staring into his lap, looking on the brink of tears. His hands are balled into tight fists, and Harry can see them shaking uncontrollably against his lap.

Something Harry said must have upset him; that much was easy enough to gather. But, if there was one thing Harry had learned in the past few hours, it was that Riddle wasn’t going to speak up unless Harry prompted it.

And so he did. “Did I say something that upset you?”

“Please, Master,” Riddle murmured, his voice coming out shaky, steadily growing more panicked as he went on.  _ “Please- _ I’ll follow your orders, I’ll obey every command—any command! Please, I’ll be the perfect slave, Master. You can punish and train me as you see fit; I will not fight you. Really, I won’t. I know I’ve already messed up-  _ Please, Master- _ Don’t give me back to the Ministry, please, I will obey! You can use me as you see fit, for anything you want! I will be your perfect slave, Master- just don’t give me back to the Ministry- Please don’t get rid of me.”

He sobs, tears threatening to spill over, and his voice comes out as barely a whisper.  _ “I don’t want to die.” _

Harry is caught off guard in about seven different ways, so he starts with the most prominent issue. Or, at least, the first one that pops up in his head. “Woah- wait, who said anything about the Ministry?”

Riddle blanches. “You- The collar represented the deal you made—where I would obey and you would keep me alive-  _ Please _ , Master, I will obey. I am willing. Truly, I am.”

And then it clicks. Harry had told Riddle that if he obeyed, Harry would try to keep him alive the best he could, and the collar was proof of that agreement.

And Harry told him to take it off.

“Okay, listen, I’m not- I’m not going to send you back to the Ministry. Or anywhere else. I can promise you that. Believe it or not, I rather like you alive,” Harry explains. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, just.. admitting that the deal was a bad idea.”

Riddle doesn’t say anything in response to that, but Harry didn’t really expect him to. He summons the space blanket from Riddle’s room, handing it over to the trembling wizard, who takes it with minute hesitancy. Riddle quickly wraps himself into a burrito, curling up on the couch as much as possible. Harry gives him a few minutes to try and calm down, to even his breathing out, before trying to restart the conversation.

“Are you okay now?”

Riddle looks much more tired than he did a few minutes ago, but he nods. “Yes, thank you, Master. I apologize for acting out of term and making you wait.”

And again, Harry’s heart hurts. “Riddle- Tom, you don’t have to apologize for having emotions.”

Riddle doesn’t reply.

Harry uses the opportunity to bring out the list and unfold it, though he doesn’t look at it yet. “I don’t.. I don’t mind if you talk. I know there’s probably hundreds of rules and regulations about how slaves are supposed to act, and I’m sure you’ve got every one of them memorized somehow, but.. let’s ignore those, for the time being.”

“You will not get in trouble for anything you say. This is supposed to be a conversation, not a lecture. But like, even in general, I don’t mind if you talk or make noise or whatever. I mean it,” Harry explained. “As for right now, I’m open to any and all ideas you may have, because I’m honestly running blind. And feel free to ask any questions you have, because I’d rather have you ask then deal with the aftermath of you not. I’d never heard of the wizarding world doing slavery before yesterday, when, you know, you happened. So, I guess.. you seem to have a better idea of what slavery is like. What.. What happens?”

Riddle meets his eyes, and then looks away only a moment later. “Slavery in the wizarding world is actually fairly common in times of war, despite what your.. book.. may say. Many of Grindelwald’s followers were turned into slaves for a certain time frame, and I’m sure the same will happen with many of the-” He abruptly cuts off, but forced the words out. “-the Death Eaters.” Riddle hands are shaking, as if he expected Harry to get mad for mentioning his former followers. When he doesn’t react, Riddle continues. “Slaves are- Usually the process of obtaining one is different. I’m a.. special case in that regard, it seems.”

“What’s it usually like?” Harry asks, trying to leave any of his questions until after Riddle finishes explaining. Learning the basics is good enough for the moment.

“An auction. Slaves are lined up and sold for a price, depending on who they are, what crime they committed, and how long their sentence is. Anybody could buy one, as long as they have the money. If the owner eventually decides they don’t want the slave, they can return them for some money back, and the slave will be sold to another person.” Riddle pauses, hesitating with the next line. “.. My situation differs because I am specifically your slave. If- If you ever wanted to be rid of me, I would- I would be given back to the Ministry to- .. There would be no other master for me. I would not be sold to anybody else.” His breathing got a bit more shallow, and he seemed a bit more frantic than before. “I don’t- Master, please, don’t send me back- They would- I promise I’ll be good. Please, Master, I will obey. Please don’t send me back. I know you hate me; punish me as much as you want, but please don’t send me back.”

Harry let the silence wash over him, thinking about all the things Riddle told him, letting it all process. “.. I won’t send you back. I won’t. Deal or no deal, I won’t.”

Riddle takes a moment to calm his breathing, then continues, as if his breakdown had never happened. “The book was right about only criminals being sentenced to slavery. But, it’s very wrong about how they’re treated.. I don’t- I don’t mean to accuse you of anything, Master; you have been nothing but kind in your treatment, and I am infinitely grateful for that. I am merely stating fact.”

“I get it. Remember, no matter what you say, you won’t get in trouble,” Harry reminded him, having a feeling it was going to be necessary.

Riddle took a deep breath. “There are rules when you buy a slave, that the owner must follow. You may not give them any permanent damage, you may not kill them, and you must return them to be released when it is due. The auction makes you sign a magical contract. But, other than that, anything is fair game. Torture, commands, even lending them out to others. It’s not uncommon for a slave to be used sexually, either.”

Riddle pauses, as if he’d just realized what he’d said.

Harry can see the exact moment the idea clicks in Riddle’s head, because he turns thirteen shades paler, frozen in thought. His eyes take on the same frantic edge as earlier, which Harry now recognizes as desperation—desperate for what, Harry can guess.

“Okay, pause for a moment.” Harry does an ‘X’ motion with his arms, trying to will Riddle’s brain to stop thinking. “Alright, I’m gonna say this once, and only once: I will  _ not _ use you sexually. No. Just, never. I’m a hardcore believer in  _ consent _ , and you can, in no way, shape, or form, give it.”

Riddle blanches, but forces his next words out anyways. “I- I will not tell you no.”

Harry resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “And you can’t say yes, either. Not that you’d want to. But anyways, believe me when I say that I’m not a fan of  _ raping _ somebody.”

Riddle nods, but looks like he doesn’t believe what Harry said for a second. “Slaves.. They’re given a list of rules and orders, and are expected to follow all of them without complaint. Failure to follow them results in a strict punishment.” He clenches his fists a bit tighter, still sitting neatly in his lap. “I’ve seen slave owners purposely give their slave an impossible order, just for an excuse to punish them later. Slaves will usually get one meal a day, and it’s a common punishment to take away the meal. It usually consisting of slop you would feed to a pig—never the same thing as their master. They aren’t allowed on furniture or chairs, because that would insinuate that the slave is in any way equal to the master. Kneeling, calling their owner ‘master’, and never making eye contact with a free person are expected behavior—along when whatever else your master orders. A slave will usually sleep on the floor, when they are permitted to, and the master usually deems it safer to- to chain the slave somehow, so they are unable to run away. It is rare for a slave to get their own room. And.. it’s.. It’s unheard of, to give a slave their own bed.”

Riddle seems to finish his explanation, and they sit in silence for a moment, before Riddle mutters out, “I apologize, Master, for not explaining very well. Slaves- They are treated as nothing more than barn animals. Showers, clothes, food, beds, even just allowing me to talk is more rare than you would think. You are truly a wonderful master.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way, for all the twenty minutes it will last.” Riddle was not going to like this conversation, Harry was sure. Not when Harry’s about to speak of orders and punishments. “I have a question. When- You said that a.. slave owner.. can’t permanently damage or kill a slave. But..”

Riddle caught on to what Harry was thinking. “Slaves only have a certain amount of time they need to serve a master. The longer the sentence, the higher the pricing on the slave is, and the worse the crime they’d committed. It’s illegal to kill or permanently damage a slave, because they will be released upon completing their sentence. The normal sentence can range anywhere from a year to fifteen, though I did see a few cases of twenty years.”

“.. And yours?”

Riddle smiled, half-broken and wholly despondent of hope. “I have a life sentence.” 

Harry feels his entire body freeze over. 

“I’ll be your slave until the day I die.”

And suddenly Harry understood—why he hadn’t signed a magical contract, why Riddle wasn’t in any auction (sold for a price Harry doesn’t even want to imagine), why Ms. Holly had only said  _ “of course!” _ when Harry asked if he could walk over and  _ kill _ Riddle, why Riddle seemed so desperate to stay on Harry’s good side.

In the end, after minutes of silence that neither could break (what could Harry  _ possibly _ say to  _ that) _ , Harry instead just decided to change the subject completely. Or, not completely, but off of that specific topic.

He unfolded the list, which had been neatly folded into squares. “I made a list,” he muttered, as if it wasn’t already obvious. “Of things to talk about, I mean.”

Riddle hummed in reply, not meeting Harry’s gaze.

“First of all, your room.” He sees Riddle’s eyes flicker upwards. “That will stay yours, no matter what. You will always be allowed to sleep in your bed, unless I, for some reason, specifically order otherwise. Also, you can decorate it however you want—though I’m not sure how you’ll get supplies to do so. Perhaps it can be a reward or something.”

He sees Riddle’s brow furrow in confusion. “Reward?”

Harry shrugs, suddenly self-conscious of all his ideas. “Well, yeah. You do something bad, you get punished. You do something good, you get a reward. Isn’t that how it works?”

“No,” Riddle states boldly, “Slaves are never given rewards.”

“Yeah, well, my household, my rules,” Harry feels oddly defensive of his idea now, and his reply comes out a bit snappy.

Riddle immediately backtracks, as if realizing how his tone could have been taken the wrong way, and how Harry’s tone probably means he messed up. “Of course, Master. I apologize.”

Harry resists the urge to sigh. Instead, he looks down at his list, then looks back up. Whatever cooperative mood Riddle has been in is about to disappear, but there’s no getting out of what comes next.

“Second thing, I  _ will  _ be giving you orders. And I expect you to  _ follow _ them, or we’re going to have a problem.” Harry stared Riddle down, as if daring him to contradict it. “And believe me when I say I have no problem with giving you a punishment, if I feel that you deserve one. Do  _ not _ test the limits of my kindness.”

Riddle breaks the stare to look at the ground by Harry’s feet, mumbling out a small, “Yes, Master.”

“That being said, I’m not trying to be unnecessarily cruel. I don’t expect you to be perfect, and I’m not going to give you impossible tasks,” Harry explains. “If an accident happens, like.. let’s say you break a vase—which would be quite a feat, considering I don’t own any—don’t try and hide it. Just come get me, and I can probably fix it. I’m not going to be upset with you for accidents, especially if you don’t try and hide it first.”

“I know you’ve got that nice Slytherin preservation, especially considering it’s you, so I’m saying it’s most definitely a better choice to tell me. Hiding creates the possibility of me finding out later, and Merlin, there is  _ nothing _ I hate more than people keeping secrets from me.”

Harry knows that goes against almost everything that makes him a Slytherin—owning up to his actions instead of trying to get out scott free—but Harry is  _ done _ with having people hide things from him. Riddle is clutching the blanket so hard that Harry fears he’ll somehow rip it, but the fabric stays in one piece.

“While we’re on the subject, please do not lie to me. I know a lot more about some things than you may think, and.. a lot less about others, but either way, do not lie to me. If I somehow have guests over, I don’t care if you lie to them, as long as you don’t get caught, but not to me. Again, I know this goes directly against your Slytherin self-preservation, but it  _ will _ be worse for you if I find out you were lying.”

Harry leans back and takes a deep breath, calming himself down. The memories of Dumbledore refusing to tell him anything—and lying when he did—are at the forefront of his mind, daring his tongue to take on an aggressive tone. And the last thing Riddle needs is for Harry to think he’s mad right now.

“I understand,” Riddle whispers, subconsciously trying to make himself as small as possible.

“And finally.. I guess I have some questions.” Harry waits until Riddle makes eye contact, even if he immediately glanced away. “Why do you think I’m doing all of this? What do you think my goal here is?”

“.. I.. I don’t know, sir..” Riddle mumbles, refusing to look up from his lap.

“Take a guess,” Harry prompts.

Riddle does not look the least bit happy about that, believing he’ll most definitely guess wrong, but obeys anyways. “.. Because you- you felt sorry for me? Didn’t want somebody’s death on your hands- It gives you the chance to punish me for my past deeds.”

“Alright,” Harry accepts, hiding whether any of those were correct or wrong, “And what do you wish to gain out of this? What are you hoping to achieve?”

“.. What?”

“Ambition,” Harry starts. “An important trait in the Slytherin house. You’ve always had it. What are you striving for, now that Voldemort has fallen?”

“I- I don’t understand. I am a slave—I am  _ your _ slave. Slaves do not have ambitions,” Riddle replies, gaining a panicked edge to his tone.

“And if they did?” Harry retorts. “Do you want freedom? Your magic? To go back to ruling as a Dark Lord? I don’t believe you’d just be content to spend the rest of your life without a goal.”

“I just want to  _ live!” _ Riddle snaps. “I want to avoid being punished! I want to live my life without the threat of torture or death looming over me! And  _ yes _ , I want my magic. But that’s only a  _ goddamn pipe dream  _ because I’m not delusional enough to think you’d ever give me a chance to use it!”

Riddle stands up and throws the blanket on the ground in his anger, breathing heavily from his rant. Harry sits patiently across from him, waiting to see what would happen next.

And all at once, Riddle seems to snap back into reality, his actions just dawning on him—and no doubt thoughts of the consequences, too. The rest of his anger fades immediately, and is replaced with the sheer terror of knowing that he yelled at his master.

Riddle’s knees hit the floor only a second later with a dull  _ thud _ . “Sorry sorry sorry I didn’t mean to yell I’m sorry please I’m sorry-”

He’s growing paler by the second, hands trembling in his lap. The stream of apologies soon die out, leaving Riddle scrunching his eyes shut as tight as possible, waiting for the inevitable consequences of his actions.

Harry leans forward, picking up the blanket that had been thrown on the floor. He watches Riddle for a minute, then balls up the blanket and throws it at his head. Riddle flinches as it hits, then carefully tries to remove the fabric from blocking his vision. It leaves him looking disheveled, what with his hair sticking every which way.

(Harry notes that it still somehow looks better than his.)

Riddle looks up, confused, and Harry only responds by leaning back again.

“One last question,” Harry continues after a minute, “What would you do if you ever ran into a Death Eater again? Do you still control them through their dark marks?”

Riddle winces when Harry mentions his group, but dutifully answers. “N- No, Master—I have no power over the Death Eaters. Not anymore. It- I cannot do anything towards them without magic.”

“And what if you ran into one?”

“I- I don’t know. Just.. whatever you wish me to do, Master,” Riddle answers, voice breaking into a small whisper.

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the fire in his fireplace burning a hot green, and only a second later Draco Malfoy is stumbling out from the other side, a look of distress crossing his face.

“Harry, holy bloody  _ hell _ , do we need to talk. Listen, I think the Ministry is trying to-” Draco cuts himself off, noticing the second presence in the room. 

Riddle is still kneeling on the floor, wearing the bright red collar that only looks more vibrant against his dark-colored clothes. Really, there’s no way for Draco to mistake what’s going on, especially with Riddle’s increasingly panicked expression.

“The rumors are true,” Draco murmurs, barely a whisper, but Harry heard him all the same. “Merlin, the rumors are- They actually- Oh _bloody hell,_ that means..”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, after this chapter, I'm gonna go back through the rest of the story and completely edit it all, cause for SOME STUPID REASON I wrote in PRESENT TENSE
> 
> who's idea was that I need to have a word with them
> 
> Don't forget to join my discord!! :D :D

**Author's Note:**

> >:D 
> 
> *ducks bricks*
> 
> Lemme know what you think! If you have any questions, I'll be more than happy to answer them all, because I have no life. Or rather, this entire fanfic idea is my life now.


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